Let then winged Fancy find
Thee a mistress to thy mind:
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,
Ere the god of torment taught her
How to frown and how to chide;
With a waist and with a side
White as Hebe's, when her zone
Slipt its golden clasp, and down
Fell her kirtle to her feet

While she held the goblet sweet,
And Jove grew languid.-Break the mesh
Of the Fancy's silken leash;
Quickly break her prison-string,
And such joys as these she'll bring:
-Let the winged Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home.

JOHN KEATS.

Said he,
66 Look how your huntsman here
Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer!"
But Sylvio soon had me beguiled—
This waxèd tame, while he grew wild,
And, quite regardless of my smart,
Left me his fawn, but took his heart.
Thenceforth, I set myself to play
My solitary time away,

With this, and, very well content,
Could so mine idle life have spent.
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot and heart, and did invite
Me to its game. It seem'd to bless
Itself in me.
How could I less
Than love it? Oh, I cannot be
Unkind to a beast that loveth me.

Had it lived long, I do not know
Whether it, too, might have done so

DEATH OF HER FAWN.

THE wanton troopers, riding by,
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men! they cannot thrive

Who kill'd thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive,
Them any harm; alas! nor could
Thy death yet do them any good.
I'm sure I never wish'd them ill,
Nor do I for all this, nor will;
But, if my simple prayers may yet
Prevail with Heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears,
Rather than fail. But, oh my fears!
It cannot die so. Heaven's king

Keeps register of everything;
And nothing may we use in vain;
Even beasts must be with justice slain,
Else men are made their deodands.
Though they should wash their guilty
hands

In this warm life-blood, which doth part
From thine and wound me to the heart,
Yet could they not be clean-their stain
Is dyed in such a purple grain;
There is not such another in
The world to offer for their sin.

Inconstant Sylvio, when yet
I had not found him counterfeit,
One morning (I remember well)
Tied in this silver chain and bell,
Gave it to me; nay, and I know
What he said then-I'm sure I do;

Perhaps as false, or more, than he.
For I am sure, for aught that I
Could in so short a time espy,
Thy love was far more better than
The love of false and cruel man.

With sweetest milk and sugar first
I it at mine own fingers nursed;
And as it grew, so every day

It wax'd more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a breath! and oft

I blush'd to see its foot more soft
And white-shall I say than my hand?
Nay, any lady's of the land.

It is a wondrous thing how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet!
With what a pretty, skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race!
And when 't had left me far away,
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler, much, than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own-
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness;

And all the spring-time of the year
It loved only to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft, where it should lie;
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes;
For in the flaxen lilies' shade

It like a bank of lilies laid.

Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips ev'n seem'd to bleed;
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill;
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold.
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.

Oh help! oh help! I see it faint,
And die as calmly as a saint,
See how it weeps! the tears do come,
Sadly, slowly, dropping like a gum.
So weeps the wounded balsam; so
The holy frankincense doth flow;
The brotherless Heliades

Melt in such amber tears as these.

I in a golden vial will

Keep these two crystal tears; and fill
It, till it do o'erflow, with mine;
Then place it in Diana's shrine.

Now my sweet fawn is vanish'd to
Whither the swans and turtles go;
In fair Elysium to endure,

With milk-white lambs, and ermines pure.
Oh do not run too fast! for I
Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.

First my unhappy statue shall
Be cut in marble; and withal,
Let it be weeping too! But there
Th' engraver sure his art may spare,
For I so truly thee bemoan

That I shall weep though I be stone;
Until my tears, still drooping, wear
My breast, themselves engraving there.
There at my feet shalt thou be laid,
Of purest alabaster made;

For I would have thine image be
White as I can, though not as thee.

ANDREW MARVELL.

ECHO AND SILENCE.

IN eddying course when leaves began to

fly,

Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy!

And, lo, she's gone!-In robe of dark

green hue

'Twas Echo from her sister Silence

flew,

For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky!

In shade affrighted Silence melts away.

Not so her sister.-Hark! for onward

still,

With far-heard step, she takes her listening way,

Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill.

Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play,

With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill!

SIR EGERTON BRYDGES.

BUGLE SONG.

THE splendor falls on castle-walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh hark! oh hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! Ch sweet and far, from cliff and scar,

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens reply ing:

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.

THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND.

THE chimes, the chimes of Motherland, Of England green and old,

That out from fane and ivied tower

A thousand years have toll'd—
How glorious must their music be
As breaks the hallow'd day,
And calleth with a seraph's voice
A nation up to pray!

Those chimes that tell a thousand tales-
Sweet tales of olden time!—

And ring a thousand memories
At vesper, and at prime:

At bridal and at burial,

For cottager and king—

Those chimes-those glorious Christian chimes,

How blessedly they ring!

Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland,
Upon a Christmas morn,
Outbreaking, as the angels did,

For a Redeemer born,-
How merrily they call afar,

To cot and baron's hall,

With holly deck'd and misletoe,
To keep the festival!

The chimes of England, how they peal
From tower and Gothic pile,
Where hymn and swelling anthem fill
The dim cathedral aisle ;
Where windows bathe the holy light
On priestly heads that falls,
And stain the florid tracery
And banner-dighted walls!

And then, those Easter bells, in Spring,
Those glorious Easter chimes,—
How loyally they hail thee round,
Old queen of holy times!